True
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: TAG FOR THE FINAL PROBLEM. John is safe. So is Mycroft. There is just one person Sherlock has left to see, and he has to see her tonight.


THE FINAL PROBLEM TAG. John is safe. So is Mycroft. There's one person left that Sherlock has to see, and he has to see her tonight.

 _True_

Molly lay on her back on her couch, staring up at the dark ceiling. Her phone lay on her chest. She'd wandered around her house for the rest of the afternoon, absently watching the light fade and the shadows lengthen. She'd never set her phone down anywhere—she clasped it loosely in her hand as she paced from one room to the next, lingering in front of framed landscapes of Ireland, pictures from John and Mary's wedding, snapshots of Rosie…

Seeing none of it.

As evening lapsed into night, she'd sat down on her couch, listening to the quiet. Then, she had slowly sunk onto her back, shivers running down through her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, her silent phone against her heart. And she let the cold tears leak from her eyes and trail down her temples and into her hair.

She turned her head, slowly, to the left. She blinked the foggy tears from her vision, and as they trailed down her nose and cheek, she gazed across the room at the digital clock.

11:59

She drew in a shaky breath. Blinked free more tears. The clock clicked over.

12:00

 _Bang, bang, bang, bang._

She gasped, and leaped into a sitting position. Her phone fell into her lap.

Molly broke into terrible fits of shaking—but the next moment, she ground her teeth against them, squeezed her hands into fists, pushed her phone out of her lap and stood up. Hands still in fists, her stomach and chest screaming, she marched across the floor toward the door. With fingers that shook like a seizure, she reached up and flipped the deadbolt, grabbed the knob and pulled the door open.

He stood outside.

Long coat hanging open, usual dress clothes slightly askew, his curly hair wild—but not as wild as his eyes.

Caught in the light outside her door, they shone with a brilliance she'd never seen. He looked pale, out of breath—his lips parted, his heavy eyebrows drawn together.

Immediately, Molly drew her arms around her chest again—then remembered her face. Swiftly, sniffing loudly, she swiped her sleeves across her cheeks.

"What do you want?" she asked, her lip trembling.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock Holmes asked.

"'Course, I'm fine," she said quickly, trying not to look at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He didn't answer.

Molly's brow twitched, and she forced herself to lift her head and meet his gaze.

He gazed back at her. A gaze open as his coat. His hands just hanging to his sides. And some sort of strange…pain…in the center of those vivid, penetrating eyes.

"Molly…" he murmured—deep, quiet, and strained. "I'm sorry."

Her stomach plunged.

Their conversation on the phone—all of it, raced, for the billionth time, through her head. And all that cold, sinking, stabbing doubt—that certainty about games and tricks and lies—gushed through her blood…

He took a step closer. Molly couldn't pull in a breath—couldn't open her mouth to beg him to just _not say it—_

"I'm sorry that I…That I pulled it from you like that," he murmured. He swallowed, and glanced away, raising his eyebrows. "But in my defense, it was pulled from me, too."

A beat passed. That meaning sank in.

"What?" Molly choked—hardly able to make a sound. And she closed her fingers around her throat.

Sherlock twitched, frowned sharply at her, opened his mouth.

"I mean—No, that's not…" He stopped, clamped his jaw, closed his eyes as he obviously weighed words. Then, he drew a brisk breath, and looked right at her. "My particular opponent this go-round was playing a game to torment me. She was trying to force me to hurt you by _making_ you expose your heart to me." Sherlock's voice suddenly shook. "Forcing me to tell you a lie so that I would wrench those words out of you. For her… _experiment_."

Molly's tears fell. They trailed down her cheeks—twin tears. Cold. But they burned her skin.

Sherlock let out a deep, sudden sigh that shivered at the end—his brow twisted.

"I thought she was going to kill you," he gasped. He gestured desperately. "She'd killed already, and I had no reason to believe she wouldn't do it again. And if I didn't get you to say _those words_ , I would have had to _watch_ you—" His throat closed up.

Molly frowned.

Sherlock pressed a hand over his mouth and took a step back, turning slightly away. Then, he dropped his hand, stared at the ground, his mouth unsteady.

"She wanted me to tell you a lie to hurt you," he said softly. "But it wasn't."

Molly's heart stopped.

Her fingers tightened around her throat.

Sherlock lifted his vivid eyes, and captured hers.

"I didn't realize that until I…said it the first time," he murmured.

A long silence stretched. Suspended. Frozen. Sherlock's lips parted.

"It's true."

Molly couldn't breathe. Sherlock took a shallow breath.

"And then…when I said it again..." he whispered, his very breath trembling. "It's always been true."

They stood, neither of them breathing. Molly's tears dripped off her chin.

And then...

All those spinning, poisonous thoughts—doubts that had threatened to drag her to the bottom—snapped loose.

Her vision flickered an instant. Her mouth opened—but she couldn't speak.

Sherlock's mouth tightened, he ducked his head, and turned away again.

"I won't bother you anymore," He said suddenly. "It's late, you should sleep. But if you…" He hesitated. "If you'd like to hear the _whole_ story, you could…pop round to Baker Street tomorrow afternoon. If you're free."

He didn't look. He waited.

A risk.

Something invisible—and extremely fragile—held out toward her.

Molly's mouth softened.

"For you I can be," she whispered.

His head came up. He looked at her.

A phantom light crossed Sherlock's eyes—almost imperceptible—

His expression broke, and tears tumbled down his cheeks.

He gasped, stepping back to her, taking her head in his gloved hands—

And he kissed her, three times—fiercely. He tasted like mint and smelled like pine—Molly drowned in him, drowned in the fever of his soft mouth pressing against hers…

The next moment, in a rush of exasperated, relieved breaths, he caught her up in his strong arms and crushed her to him, burying his face in her neck. She threw her arms around him and took fistfuls of his hair.

"I do love you," he gasped in a flood. "I do love you…Please don't be afraid of me."

"Okay," Molly tried, breaking down and squeezing her eyes shut, nodding earnestly into his collar. "Okay…"

She heard him, right in her ear—she heard him crying. She stifled her own, holding him tighter, stroking the back of his head.

Then, finally, he set her down, drew back—sniffing and gasping and pulling himself back together. He bent swiftly and kissed her cheek twice, marking her skin with his tears.

"Okay, I erm…" he stammered, tears still gleaming in his eyes and on his face. "I'm so glad you're…" He caught hold of her hands, gulping, and just nodded. Molly squeezed back.

"Baker Street, then? Tomorrow?" he asked briskly, lifting his chin.

"Yeah, I can…I can be there at two o'clock," Molly said, trying to stabilize her own voice.

"Yes, I think that would suit fine," he said, smiling—a slightly-fractured smile, made brilliant with tears. She held onto his hands.

"I'll come ready for a good story, then," she said lightly. She squeezed his hands tighter.

He returned the pressure, and gazed at her, his smile diminishing somewhat.

"It's…a difficult story. Murder and…danger and all that." His voice lowered, and his eyes softened. "But I think…even after everything…I'm rather fond of the ending."

Molly nodded quickly—and this time, warm tears spilled down her face.

"Yeah," she managed. "Me too."

And this time, Sherlock smiled at her—truly. That genuine smile that reached his eyes. And then it slowly faded, as he just looked at her. Right at her.

She let go his hand, reached up, and straightened his coat collar, just to feel it between her fingers…just to keep him there a moment longer, looking back at her like that…

He let her fiddle with his coat, his gaze slowly tracing her features. Then, at last, he caught her hand between both of his, briskly rubbed it to warm it, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"Goodnight," he said against her skin. He let her go, and backed up. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Okay," she whispered.

He pointed at her.

"Lock and bolt your door."

She lowered her head and grinned wryly, backing across her threshold.

"I will."

"And Molly."

She looked at him. He regarded her seriously.

"The next time I call you," he said firmly. "Answer it the first time."

She let out a watery laugh, covered her mouth for an instant, then nodded.

"Goodnight," she murmured.

His gaze lingered upon her, and then he nodded. He faced the street, turned up his collar and rammed his hands in his pockets, striding off toward Baker Street.

Molly watched him until he disappeared. Then, she drew inside, shut the door and threw the deadbolt. Shook it to make it secure. Then, she came back to the couch, found her phone, switched the sound on…

And fell deeply asleep on the couch with it right beside her head.

THE END

 _(Check out my Victorian mystery o n—you'll love it.)_


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